


Training Day

by romanticalgirl



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-12-05 12:53:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/723524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The battleground is not the only place to prove oneself.</p><p>Originally posted 5-3-06</p>
            </blockquote>





	Training Day

Arthur tapped the reins, edging his horse forward out of the woods. His eyes caught the sun and the slivers of steel flashing off to his right and he turned his head, the rough corral hazy in the heat of the day and the dust kicked up as his knights fought against their Roman counterparts, practicing the thrust and parry of their blades.

Their names filtered through his head – down from 40 to 20 now – though his eyes did not move over the host of them, staying locked instead on the proud, defiant figure nearest him. Lancelot was stripped to the waist, his dark hair matted down with sweat, his tanned skin glowing golden with rivulets of perspiration. Arthur swallowed hard, shifting in his saddle as his horse continued apace, the slow plodding giving Arthur ample time to survey his assembled men were he able to pull his eyes away.

Instead his gaze moved over the sleek lines of Lancelot’s chest and arms, the black leather of his pants glowing dark as night against the burning sun. His chest tightened as the delighted joy in Lancelot’s laugh rang out as he pressed the tip of one of his swords to the centurion’s neck. Arthur shifted again, leaning forward slightly to alleviate the pull of heat in his groin, pressing hard to the horn of the saddle. His body tightened and he closed his eyes, willing the thick need away.

Another laugh caught his ear and he opened his eyes again, the sun nearly blinding him as Lancelot twirled one sword and then the other, facing off as another Centurion joined his pinned counterpart. The laughter faded as Lancelot raised his eyes, nailing Arthur with a sly, equally knowing smile. Arthur’s throat constricted and he nodded once, not even attempting to avert his eyes as the second Centurion charged toward Lancelot.

Without looking away from Arthur, Lancelot jabbed his sword back, the hiss of hot metal on hot skin loud as all other fighting seemed to stop, the rest of the knights and Romans moving toward the spectacle. Lancelot’s smile widened into a grin and he looked away from Arthur, devoting his full attention to the battle.

Arthur nudged his horse and moved slowly forward, inching down the hill. His eyes stayed glued to the shimmering figure, like some ancient, blasphemous god fallen from the sky. Sweat glowed on his skin, and ran rivulets over the dark leather, his smile flashing as brightly as the metal of his swords. Two more Centurions stepped in, replacing their comrades as they fell stunned and wounded to the ground. He could sense the control with which Lancelot held himself, and knew none of his men were truly hurt, but the undercurrent of hot anger shone even more brightly than the sun beating down on Lancelot’s burnished flesh.

The final Roman, of those brave enough to enter the fray, fell, and the rest fell back. Lancelot stopped and stood, his chest rising and falling with every hard-fought breath as he turned, and sought out Arthur’s eyes, his face glowing with pride and triumph. His dark eyes found Arthur’s green and held them, a challenge thrown down between them as he handed his swords to Percival. Lancelot’s smile changed under Arthur’s gaze, slipped into a sneer. “Well?”

Arthur slipped from his horse’s back and let loose the reins as Jols came forward to claim it. “Sloppy. Flashy. Extravagant. You left yourself open numerous times and, were you fighting Woads, you’d be dead. Fortunate for you, and unfortunate for these men, you’ve proven that they need better training as they weren’t able to take advantage of the blatant deficiencies in your technique.”

Cold fury replaced the dark heat of promise in Lancelot’s eyes and he turned on his heel, striding away from Arthur without a word. Arthur glanced to his gathered knights, all of them sparing glances between the angry man striding away and Arthur’s cool, appraising gaze.

“Help these men.” When they didn’t move, their gazes turning almost as one to Lancelot, he faced them head on, his irritation – at Lancelot, at himself – rising to the fore. “Help them. Now.”

The knights moved forward, their smirking grins letting him know that their help might be more of an infliction of pain on the Romans, but he couldn’t spend the time to care. No wound would be left to fester. No wound, he reminded himself, and strode off in Lancelot’s footsteps, to lance the one of his own making.

**

The sun made the stable even hotter than outside, the heavy scent of hay and dung and oil sharp in the air. Lancelot was pacing the enclosed space, his body alive with agitation as he continued moving, in constant motion, his eyes flickering occasionally toward the wall where Arthur stood, watching him.

“You’re angry.”

“Angry?” Lancelot snapped, his voice as sharp as his swords. “You berated me.”

“The goal of practice is to point out the weaknesses of your fighting.”

Lancelot advanced on him, his dark eyes flashing even in the dim light. “And were that what you did, I would be thankful for your keen insight, _Commander_ ,” he sneered the name, lacing it with feigned reverence. “What you said had nothing to do with my fighting.”

“And what was it in regards to then, _Knight_?”

Lancelot’s face contorted with barely suppressed rage at the final word as he closed the space between them and shoved at Arthur’s chest, pushing him hard against the wall. “You tell me.” His voice hissed through clenched teeth, his hands continuing to hold Arthur to the wall, pushing him back with every few words. “I bested 15 of your men, the ones brave enough to face me, and I’m not good enough?”

“No.”

Lancelot pressed closer, the heat of his body, the scent of his sweat heavy in Arthur’s nose, on his tongue. “Then why couldn’t you look away?”

Arthur shoved Lancelot back, his palms tingling with the slick slide of his skin. “My job…”

“No. Not your job.” Lancelot laughed was tinged with bitterness. “Lie to yourself. Lie to your God, but you will not lie to me.” He shoved at Arthur again, the rage of earlier somehow transmuted into a dangerous fever that flecked Lancelot’s brown eyes. “You watched me.”

“To find…”

“Not my swords, not your men. You. Watched. Me.” He shoved Arthur again, his mouth curving in a slow, insidious smile. “Did you like it, Arthur? What you saw?”

“You need work, as I said.”

“I need?” Lancelot’s eyebrow shot up and he snorted a quick laugh. He dropped his hands and shook his head, turning to walk away. Arthur’s eyes ran over the line of his back, the play of muscle beneath his skin. “You know nothing of what I need.”

Without thought, Arthur reached out and grabbed Lancelot’s wrist, turning and pulling in a smooth, easy motion, slamming the younger man hard against the stable wall. Fire flashed in the moment of impact, the vengeful words on Lancelot’s tongue silenced as Arthur pressed himself hard between Lancelot’s legs, their bodies aligned as Arthur’s mouth closed on Lancelot’s in a searing kiss, far hotter than the blaze of the sun or the fire of Lancelot’s skin.

They both inhaled roughly as Arthur broke the kiss, his body still reacting to the touch of Lancelot’s beneath him. He dove in again, unable to resist the parted lips, the darting tongue, the challenge in Lancelot’s eyes. Lancelot made no sound as Arthur’s body collided with his, as rough as the hewn wood and stone that rasped against Lancelot’s bare skin, the hiss of every scratch fueling Arthur’s demanding kiss.

He ground against Lancelot, sharp bones and muscle against his heftier weight, the demanding presence of arousal between them. Arthur groaned, cursing himself for the sound, and broke away, panting hard in the sudden silence.

Arthur stared at Lancelot’s hand as he lifted it, fingers long and fine as he pressed the back of his hand to his mouth then turned it, fingers now tracing the swollen curve of his lips. Swallowing hard, Arthur gave Lancelot a curt nod. “You’re dismissed.”

A sharp smile split beneath Lancelot’s fingers and he dropped his hand. “Am I?”

“Yes.”

“You think I’m yours to command right now?” He moved forward like a lion, sinew and grace, though his eyes were far more predatory, ready to strike like a poisonous snake.

“You are,” Arthur paused, his eyes raking over Lancelot’s body, his voice betraying far more truth than he intended, “my knight.”

“I belong to no man.” Lancelot stopped just in front of Arthur, his jaw set and his eyes flashing.

“You belong to Rome.” Arthur forced the words past his lips, waiting for the thick hatred to mask the flames dancing in Lancelot’s eyes. “I am Rome.”

“You,” Lancelot leaned in and breathed the word against Arthur’s neck, “are Arthur.”

Arthur fought the temptation to close his eyes, to give in to the urge to turn his head and meet Lancelot’s mouth again. “I thought I dismissed you.”

Lancelot took a step closer and ran his tongue along the line of Arthur’s throat. “You thought wrong.”

Arthur shuddered hard and shoved him away, his breath heavy and hot as he forced it out from his lungs. “Go.”

Lancelot shook his head, his smile insolent and knowing, as he breached the space once more. “You don’t want me to.”

“I will not tell you again.” Arthur stood his ground, though his voice held a tremor. “Go.”

Lancelot held out his hands to his sides, his eyes alight with challenge. “Make me.”

Arthur’s body moved on instinct, his hands catching Lancelot’s wrists as he drove him back to the wall again. He lifted them above Lancelot’s head, holding him captive as their mouths met with bruising force, Arthur’s knee parting Lancelot’s legs. The younger man shuddered and opened his mouth beneath the force of Arthur’s kiss, licking and sucking and biting Arthur’s hungry mouth in turn.

Groaning hotly, Arthur shoved Lancelot away again, the soft “No” he uttered lost as Lancelot surged forward, shoving him.

“Roman dog,” Lancelot snarled. “Bastard cur.” He shoved Arthur again. “Do not tell me no.”

Arthur stopped as Lancelot advanced, meeting the press of his body with a shove of his own, the force of his fists driving into Lancelot’s stomach. He stumbled backwards, not losing his footing, his smile expanding into a delighted laugh.

“Come on, Arthur.” He practically danced closer, his hands and fingers moving loosely, promising pain and pleasure. “Or are you just going to take it. Like you always take it. Doing Rome’s bidding like a whore.” His eyes flared as Arthur’s gaze narrowed. “You’re a free man, Arthur, but you are more owned than I.”

His swing felt almost detached, jarring him as he landed the first blow. Lancelot licked his lip where Arthur had drawn blood, running his tongue across his teeth then sucking them clean. His eyes were bright and his body exuded heat as Arthur closed in on him.

“Is that the best you’ve got?” The second punch ended a glancing blow as Lancelot surged toward him, his hands grabbing Arthur’s tunic and fisting in the rough cloth. “Come on, Arthur.” His hands tightened in the fabric then jerked hard apart, ripping the cloth down the center. “Show me what you’re made of.”

“What am I made of?” Arthur’s hands grasped Lancelot’s wrists tightly, feeling the bones rub and grind. “I will tell you.” He advanced on Lancelot, pushing backwards, not relenting even as Lancelot collided with the low wood work table, a harsh cry breaking past his lips at the force of it. “Flesh.” He jerked Lancelot forward viciously and met his lips, biting the lower one hard before sucking it into his mouth. He shoved Lancelot away and watched as the other man fell into the pile of rough, sweet hay. “Blood.” He knelt between the knight’s sprawled legs and dug his fingers into the leather laces that held Lancelot’s pants low on his hips.

Lancelot’s hands went to Arthur’s chest; his short nails raking through the dark hair, scraping against his skin. “Honor.” His sneer curled his lip. “Faith.” He imitated Arthur’s gestures and tugged at the laces of Arthur’s pants, stripping them free of the leather that held them, baring more skin. “Owned by Rome. Owned by God.”

Arthur pulled back from his touch and jerked the leather hard down Lancelot’s legs, tugging his pants to his knees. “A man of God,” Arthur breathes as his hand closed around the container that had fallen to the floor when he had slammed Lancelot into the table, pouring the thick oil used for their saddles into his palm. “But no less a man.”

“Owned.”

“Owned as you are,” Arthur agreed, panting heavily as he moved forward, his knees resting on Lancelot’s leather breeches, pinning him down. He wrapped his hand around his arousal and coated it, guiding it toward Lancelot, pressing hard against the tight ring of muscle. “ _My_ knight.”

Lancelot’s low groan pierced the air as Arthur penetrated his flesh, the sudden tight heat even hotter than the willing surrender of Lancelot’s body as his hips roll up to meet Arthur’s thrust. “Oh…God.”

“Do not pray,” Lancelot’s words were gasped as Arthur’s momentum drove him deeper into the tight flesh, his body reacting of its own accord, his motions beyond control as his hands fisted in the hay on either side of Lancelot’s head. “Not while you are on your knees for me.”

Arthur closed his eyes, focusing on the hard roll of his hips, the meeting of flesh and bone, the slick friction of Lancelot’s arousal between them, wet with the pressure of their bodies, the constant thrust and parry between them. Arthur bowed his head, seeking Lancelot’s mouth with his own, needing the salty taste of blood and sweat mixed with the spice that flavored Lancelot’s thrusting tongue.

“Rome…does not own me,” Lancelot’s voice whispered as he broke the kiss, breathless as his hand snaked between them, fisting around the length of him, stroking himself in time to Arthur’s increasingly erratic thrusts.

Arthur groaned, his body stiffening as the wave of his climax tore through him, his hips jerking hard and fast against Lancelot as he buried the flood of heat deep inside him. Lancelot’s hand moved furiously between them until he gasped, shuddering breathlessly beneath Arthur, the blood hotness of it almost cool against Arthur’s burning flesh.

Arthur pulled away slowly, his chest tight as he forced out every breath. He refused to look at Lancelot, getting to his feet and pulling at his leathers, tightening the laces as best he could, the thin strips broken, torn as easily as his tunic. He stumbled back slightly, hitting the wall and resting his head against it, watching Lancelot as he finally moved.

There was a dark crease in his skin as he stood where the leather had cut into his flesh, the force and weight of Arthur’s body driving it deep. Lancelot shifted, wincing slightly as he tugged at the leather, the material sticking and clinging to his wet flesh as he forced it to his will and sheathed himself inside it. Grabbing a saddle blanket off the wall, he scrubbed at the stain of their encounter then tossed it aside, finally raising his dark, hot eyes to Arthur.

Arthur averted his eyes, too late, for Lancelot advanced on him, his own eyes intent on Arthur’s face. He crowded him, his lithe body pressing hard to Arthur’s, holding him still against the wall. “I am your knight, Arthur. Not Rome’s.”

Willing himself not to respond, Arthur nodded his head, his voice barely above a whisper, soft enough for a prayer. “Mine.”  



End file.
